


A Storm That's Gonna Show

by nightstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP, Voyeurism, birthday fic, casturbation, dean masturbates too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightstiel/pseuds/nightstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is troubled. Dean offers a word or two of advice and a short demonstration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Storm That's Gonna Show

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anythingtoasted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/gifts).



> This is a gift for the lovely Katie, the sweetest person in the world, an amazing writer and a great friend. ♥

The light from the lone, narrow window near the ceiling of Dean’s room barely creeps in the shadowy dawn when he wakes up for the first time, eyes flying open and hands gripping the pillow, alert, skin prickling with goosebumps. He listens for a while, but Cas is silent, merely turning in his sleep. Dean reaches back out and pats him on the hip, a caress that he has taken too recently—still friendly (“shut the fuck up, Sam!”) but more intimate. He thinks about gently squeezing Castiel’s hand, sometimes, when a bout of a particularly vile nightmare seizes him and his friend’s face is wet with tears and the soft cries resonate hollow and loud in Dean’s head; but he never does. He’s not sure what it would mean to Cas and _himself,_ either, but he’s pretty damn sure it wouldn’t end there. It would spread like a disease; fingers covering a trembling hand, then trailing up his forearm, along the blue veins in which now human blood thrums. There’s a shoulder on the way – and shoulder is good, it is safe – but the onslaught would be inevitable, his warm palm at the nape of Castiel’s neck, cradling, barring them both from falling into pieces as Dean would lean in and kiss his friend.

And that would complicate things considerably.

So Dean doesn’t do anything of the sort. Instead, he wraps his arms around the pillow and tries to fall asleep. It’s easier now, when his bed is balanced with weight on its right side, an anchor keeping him safe and steady.

He wakes up what must be an hour later, to Cas tossing and turning again. Must be a usual unpleasant dream, not a nightmare, because he’s quiet. After several nights when Dean found Cas leaning against his door, too terrified by his memories and too bashful to come in and bother Dean at 2:38 AM, Dean has made the decision that Cas sleeps with him, at least until he can deal on his own.

So far Cas is doing a lousy job at that.

Dean glances at Cas over his left shoulder but the former angel has settled again, face buried in his pillow, blankets wrapped around him like a cocoon. They have three blankets in the bed, because Cas usually ends up hogging two and Dean likes to sleep in a t-shirt and boxers and not freeze to death in his own fucking bed. (Cas wears plaid pajama pants Dean got him at a thrift shop. Initially he insisted that they would go well with a plaid shirt and Dean has spent an excruciating afternoon looking at such atrocity. He convinced Cas plaid and denim was a much better combination in the end, even if it meant relinquishing one of his, which became Castiel’s favourite instantly.)

He breathes out softly, eyes closing as his hand travels south, cupping his morning wood through his boxers. Normal people would take care of that in the shower, he knows. But he is warm here, he doesn’t want to wake Castiel up and the bed will surely creak when he lifts his weight and, well—Dean shudders at the thought but the last two times he’s done it, it was _different._ He won’t say better – won’t think it, in fact – but he does enjoy biting down on his knuckles to hide his soft cries, eyes squeezing shut when his hand breaches the waistband of his underwear. His cock is already heavy and hot in his grip, the residue of dreams he’d rather  not confess to remembering chased away from his head with every firm tug and stroke, smearing the precome across the head. He bucks his hips forward, breaths soft and ragged when a hand clasps around his wrist, grip like steel, halting his movements.

“Dean.” He turns around , blinking at the light hitting his eyes. Castiel looms over him, lips thinned in frustration—not disgust—and it almost looks like a halo around the tuft of dark hair, shadows on his face impenetrably deep, stubble rich on his cheek. He’s the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen. Cas’s gaze travels from Dean’s eyes to fix on his cock, twitching in anticipation. He’s on the verge and he suspects Castiel knows, if the hunger in his eyes is anything to go by. He closes his eyes again, cheeks red not because he’s embarrased—he is – but because it sends more spikes or arousal to his already aching dick and despite himself something about Castiel’s grip on his arm is even more stimulating. His friend shifts forward and there’s hardness pressing against the cleft of Dean’s ass and it feels electric even through layers of fabric. He thinks about Castiel’s cockhead, glistening with precome and so _eager_  and it sends him over the edge; air knocked out of his lungs and white hotness spilling  all over the sheets as he lurches forward, biting the pillow to stifle a moan resonating deep in his chest. He arches against Cas’s thighs, wanton as his hips roll back.

 

Castiel is still holding his wrist and he leans even closer, his bulge rubbing against Dean’s ass. Which makes what Dean just did a lot less embarrassing than it should be.

“Sorry, Cas,” he mutters, extricating himself from Castiel’s grip and tucking himself back into his underwear. “I thought you were asleep and wouldn’t mind—“ He pauses, realising how bad it sounds. “That was gross. Won’t happen again, man.”

“I didn’t mind,” Cas says in a small voice and his hands comes to rest on Dean’s hip; light and trespassing.  “I thought you were beautiful.”

Dean laughs, hollow, shuffling away and throwing a blanket around him, as if it could protect him from this confession. A drop of perspiration rolls down his temple, his cheek, a bead disappearing in the hollow between his neck and his collarbone. The air is charged, crackling, bringing back memories of ozone and hurricane in the wooden barn.

“Yeah, thanks. Don’t say that to another human being after you watched them jerk off, okay? It’s creepy.” He swallows once, audibly. He doesn’t explain the breaching of the lines between friendship and non-friendship. Doesn’t say, _Don’t do that because that’s a hell of a turn on._ Doesn’t wonder if it’s the third time already. “Now go back to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“Read a book, then.” Dean’s cheeks are burning. Turns out it’s really awkward when your best friend – who also shares your bed in a purely platonic manner – tells you look beautiful when you come and you want to drink the praise from his mouth and from his cock too, maybe; press your lips to the head and hear how he finds you beautiful then, too.

“I can’t because it won’t go away.” Dean turns around this time as Cas points to his erection. His friend is kneeling next to him, his big, straining cock lifting the fabric in the most enticing way. It would almost feel like a prayer, maybe; the holy light and the make-believe halos, knees bent but spine rigid with concentration and the wet pull of Dean’s lips around Castiel’s length. He sure as hell would make his friend feel like he’s touching the divine.

“Cas, I remember tellin’ you what to do about it. Hell, I just showed you. Go to the bathroom and figure it out.” His words come out sharper than intended but it’s so, so difficult to keep his cool when his mouth is practically watering at the thought of sucking his best friend off. “It’s easy,” he adds, softer, but Castiel doesn’t move.

“It wasn’t an enjoyable experience,” Castiel complains. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, either.” He looks down, morose and maybe a little disappointed. “I’ll just wait until it goes away.”

“No, Cas, that’s not healthy.” He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t and yet he is sitting up now and disentangling the elaborate knot at Castiel’s waistband. “I’ll walk you through it, okay?” He fumbles so Cas finishes the job as he keeps staring into Dean’s eyes and he tries to averts his gaze—looks down to the dark patch of skin, trailing down – and settles back on leveling his eyes with Castiel’s. They are calm, patient; and most of all, curious. He smells like hibiscus shampoo which he loves even if Dean tells him it’s for chicks and stale beer from last night and Dean breathes in, deep.

“Thank you, Dean.” From this distance his words almost caress Dean’s face. “I appreciate this.”

He helps Cas tug his pajama pants down and takes his time folding them and putting them at the foot of the bed as his heart hammers away in his chest. He should be worried about breaching into this uncharted territory but they are so far gone that they might not make it back; they might as well enjoy the ride. Dean tells Cas to rest against a pillow and get comfortable as he scoots to sit cross-legged opposite him, their feet touching.

Castiel is waiting for his cue, eyes expecting and curious but Dean can’t speak yet—he watches Cas in all his glory, from the shaped calves and strong thighs, covered in soft, dark hair; he rests against the pillow like a poised cat, arms and shoulders wiry, strength hidden underneath and he knows it would feel to be caged between them, mattress beneath him and Cas, all strong and lean and hard above him, pressed to his back. It all converts to the point between Castiel’s legs, his cock swollen and heavy, head delicious dark red, bigger than Dean had imagined. He grips the sheets and feels blood rushing south again.

Luckily, this means he won’t overthink it.

“You know how to start, Cas,” he mutters and his friend complies; his fingers are long and they wrap around his shaft in a tight grip near the base. “Now move. Just go with it.” Cas starts pumping, slow and tentative at first but he falls into a rhythm soon, hand moving up and down as he claws at the sheets with his other hand. His eyes are wide and he looks away when he catches Dean’s stare, hitching and losing his composure for a while . “Cas. Hey, Cas. Look at me.” He shuffles closer, almost sitting between Castiel’s thighs now. “You’re doing great, yeah? Does it feel okay?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas relaxes again as he starts moving and it seems to be more natural now.

“Give it a little smear, okay?” Beads of precome are forming on the tip already and Dean watches Cas drag them down with his thumb, coating his cock with slick liquid. Dean is almost breathless; Castiel’s long fingers wrapped around his long cock, thick and veined, straining in his fist. “Think about something nice,” he heaves out and cringes. _Nice._

“You,” Castiel’s breath comes out in huffs. “I’m thinking about you,” he moans quietly, and his toes curl. He reaches for his balls then, hanging pink and heavy beneath the base of his length and holds them in his palm, as he tips his head back, baring a throat that begs to be ravished by Dean’s mouth as he would fuck into him.

Dean licks his lips. “Look at me, Cas.” He almost stumbles back when he does because Castiel’s smoldering gaze is something to die for, pupils dilated, lips parted and wet. He is hard again and he’s palming his cock through his boxers. Somehow he doesn’t think Cas will mind; he seems to enjoy it, rather, a grin playing somewhere on his lips. “Give it a little twist, yeah? Just like that. Yeah, perfect. You’re doin’ great, Cas.” He wants to ask what exactly is Castiel thinking about. Maybe he should. Maybe he wants to hear dirtiest, weirdest dirty talk spilling from Castiel’s mouth.

 “What are the _nice_ things you wanna do to me, Cas?,” he dares, grinding the back of his palm on his cock as he holds Castiel’s eyes, whose breath is speeding up and small whimpers are escaping his mouth. “Bend me over and fuck me with your fingers until I’m begging for your cock in me?” Cas lips his lips, and tilts his head back again, hand clenched around his dick and moving fast, desperate. “Or me fucking you into this bed, baby? Talk to me, Cas.”

“All. All of it.” Castiel’s voice is a pained whisper, dragging his nails down his thighs as he firms his lips, first throes of orgasm reaching his face. “Maybe have you wear that pink piece of woman’s underwear that you keep in your bottom drawer, Dean.” Cas opens his eyes and it sends a tingle down Dean’s spine, straight to his dick, aching and leaking, a dark stain on the front of his boxers. “I’d push them aside and make love to you.”

Dean wants to laugh—who says _make love?_ —but the minute Cas puts the image in his head, he wants it. He wants all of it. He wants to touch Cas. He wants to take him apart with his fingers and his mouth and cock and he yearns for Cas to do the same to him. All he manages is a strained _yeah, okay_.

Cas is working his shaft near the top now, the head even darker red and dripping with fat beads of precome; his body is convulsing, his free hand grasping the sheets for support. “Dean.” His eyes shoot open and he looks at the hunter, panicked. “Dean, something is happening.” His hand is a blur now and his chest heaves in shallow breaths. “Dean.” He can’t stop saying his name, mulling it over in his mouth, spilling it like a prayer.

“You’re almost there, Cas,” he whispers, and Dean is, too. “Let it go. Come on, just  a little more. Come for me, Cas.” He murmurs words of encouragements even if it seems like Cas might not be listening, chanting _Dean, Dean, Dean_ over and over.

Castiel comes with a soft cry, sounding a little surprised. Dean tells him to keep going and he spills in white spurts, some catching on his thighs and Dean’s knees. His eyes are wide open and his mouth falls slack, as he loosens his grip around his cock, now softening and falls back on the pillows entirely. Dean slips his hand under the fabric of his underwear, now positively chafing and he only needs a few strong tugs before he’s doubling over and soiling his boxer, head bent almost in Castiel’s crotch. The long release wrings them both, and they fall against each other, boneless and sweaty. Cas shies away from the touch at first, breath coming in short rasps. “It’s all... so much, Dean,” he mutters, eyes closing as Dean runs a finger down his shoulder languidly and Castiel shudders, oversensitive.

“This was much better than before. Thank you, Dean.”

“No big deal. I’m your friend, Cas. I gotta help you with those human things.” Cas is close now, smiling and content, crinkles around his eyes one of the most adorable things Dean has ever seen. It takes all of his self-restraint not to kiss him.

“Should I ask Sam for further instructions, then?” If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say that’s a coy look on Castiel’s face. “I read about ‘fingering’. It sounds promising.”

“No!” Dean gasps. “I mean. Sammy doesn’t know about this kind of thing.” He freezes when he realises what he’s just said; but he suspects Cas knows everything anyway. Fucking spying angels. They probably kept track of his every hookup, man or woman ever since he hit adolescence.

“Will _you_ help?”

“I guess. Whatever. Practice this first.” Dean gets up with faked indignation, head spinning as he walks to the bathroom, body heavy to lift it off the bed. He should shower and make them both sandwiches. His skin is oversensitive now, too, wet fabric rubbing against his flaccid, spent dick. There’s sweat trickling down he’s back and he hasn’t felt this good in _weeks._ He stops at the foot of the bed, stretching, spine and joints cracking. He’s aware of Castiel watching him from the bed; he looks around his shoulder to confirm.

 “Dude, stop checking out my ass,” he hisses, heat rising to his cheeks, but there’s no vice in it. He slams the door to the bathroom behind him to keep up the appearances.

Dean sits under the shower for good twenty minutes before coming back to bed and Castiel is asleep already, sprawled in the middle of the bed. Dean lies down next to him and ruffles his hair; he just talked his best friend through masturbating and it feels damn good, as long as they don’t mention it to Sam, who will probably try to badger Dean into arranging a wedding.

It feels right to slip under the covers, smelling of musk and come and sweat. Cas is his counterweigh; maybe that’s what they are to each other, pulling the other back from perdition even when it’s inevitable. Dean has never thought an ex-angel with an attitude and a warm heart would end up sleeping in his bed one day.

Good things do happen.


End file.
